Dance on a Volcano
by Dixon Oriole
Summary: For feather duster! Post everything. Shouldn't someone call Garland? Granted, nothing is happening... oddly enough. And granted, Procedures are a no no...


_Disclaimer_: I claim nothing! If you want it, Mr. Aoki Takao, please, take it!

Dance on a Volcano

By Dixon Oriole

Max would have turned around and went to get reinforcements, except he'd been spotted. And Garland had chuckled, without humor in his eyes, without a smile on his face, a glass of hard liquor in his hand, "A sense of normality is really the best thing you can provide. He can tell immediately when you're following _procedures_." They'd looked at him. He'd looked at his drink. "Aaand…What does he do if he notices you're..?" someone grownup had asked. (Garland hung out with the adults too much; Tyson said and Max agreed that it simply wasn't normal when your age still ended in 'teen'. So they'd attacked him with water guns.) But before his Jack Daniels became rudely diluted, Garland had time to noncommittally answer, "That depends on who you are."

Max wasn't sure what to make of it. Garland hadn't elaborated, just looked kind of stunned when soaking wet. Maybe they shouldn't have cut the conversation short… but by GOD it was depressing and what were the odds such a situation would arise? Where one of them would have to maintain a sense of normality and avoid obviously _special _procedures and deal with the consequences when he noticed—… What were the odds Brooklyn would show up one day sittin' on their front stoop?

Max felt fleetingly resentful. Like denying them their procedures was Garland avoiding telling them what to do. Maybe he hadn't thought about this happening either—really, what were the _odds_?

Standing in the middle of the road, bundled up and puffing vapor in the brisk 5:00 pm air, Max reassured himself that it was really quite simple! And familiar! Wayward beybladers randomly appeared on stoops all the time! Rick had shown up unannounced just the other day, and a few weeks before that the Psykicks had been in town and moved into the dojo. Sometimes whole teams just wandered through and the Game Shop was on the outskirts; if they came from the South-West it was really the first logical stop! And if they didn't know where they were going it was a guaranteed info-pit stop, bite-to-eat stop, place-to-rest and chat stop… It was an open-arms-welcome-to-Bey City kind of landmark to touch base for weary travelers…

This wasn't at all rare or frightening! Even if Brooklyn didn't look even a little weary or lost or apologetic or even hopeful and even if he _was _staring for an extended and rather unsettling length of time! Just the other day Garland had stared for an unsettling length of time when he'd been attacked with water guns. Maybe it was something about the Siebalt house… Oh and Lee when they'd dropped a water balloon off the dojo roof onto his head! It wasn't just the Seibalts. This was _so normal_ right now.

And anyway it was best to act like that, because Garland had left it up in the air how Brooklyn reacted to procedures (Max assumed it had something to do with he _ruined_ them). So it was completely normal and he'd act that way! Not everybody was predictable all the time! Just the other day Tyson had backed away quickly from Garland and turned around and smacked into Kai and the four overfilled, needle-punctured water balloons in his arms had exploded ALL over them and Kai had looked for a second like he was going to _punch _and they had all really expected him to, and appropriately braced for impact, but he'd just turned on heel and gone back inside. Tyson had been pissed, because apparently the lack of rage was like an insult, like Kai hadn't realized the preciousness of those four perfect water balloons that had just been _wasted _on him, and he hadn't even had the decency to react. And then somebody, probably Hilary, whose jaw hung open, had stepped outside and said, "Did I just see Kai _smiling_?"

Best day of Tyson's life.

So anyway even weirdos like Kai and Brooklyn were normal if you just took everything in stride! Even the strange became the commonplace and blah blah blah… Max supposed he'd just go inside and make some sandwiches for dinner. Dad was still heading back from visiting Mom in America, but he'd leave one in the fridge for when he returned that night. Airport food was so unsatisfying! He'd offer to make Brooklyn a sandwich. Did he eat meat, and what kind of bread, or whatever? Did he like lemonade? Maybe they could run out to the co-op together, wouldn't that be fun! They were open 'til seven, right? It would be a learning experience! Just the other day he'd learned for the first time that Rick's favorite sandwich involved meatballs and toasting. Hold the excessive amounts of mayonnaise _please_. Ty and Daichi were devoted burger-eaters. Every single one of the 'Tigers liked BLTs, but he had the sneaking suspicion they more liked saying the name. And for Rei at least it tied with tuna melts on baguette.

But first of all Max had to just stop standing there breathing in the growing darkness. He and Brooklyn staring at each other. Anyway it was normal, so, thinking about possible sandwich combinations, Max jogged over grinning and waving a mitten and brushed right past Brooklyn, fumbling in his pockets for keys. "Heyloo,"—Max winced as Brooklyn, eyes following him, tilted his head. He'd been hanging out with Kenny too much, picking up the diction, in any case—"Sorry about just standing there! I was surprised and thinking about what food I have to offer you! Not that you're here for food. Are you here to visit?"

The door finally opened thank goodness, and Max stuck his head into the hallway, pawing along the wall for the light switch. "Cummon inside, it's freezing! Have you looked at the thermostat?" Max turned and poked his head back outside, kicking off his boots, pointing at the thermometer nailed to the side of the house.

"The '_thermostat'_?" Brooklyn asked, glancing at the garden fixture. Apparently resistant to standing up, having been rooted to the spot, leaning against a support beam for right around three hours now. He'd been planning on watching the stars from here—there weren't such tall buildings in the way, and the cloud cover was practically… He waved a dismissive hand, watching Max pull his mittens off with his teeth, "It's 55 degrees."

"Yeah but there's wind chill. And it might rain. So_ hey_ get inside, I want to close to door, it's _cold_! It's fall out there!" Max ducked out of sight again, laughing, stripping and discarding layers as he headed inside. "Cummon, cummon, cummon you want food? Want to watch TV?"

Brooklyn wrinkled his brow. Stuck his hand out in front of him. It was decidedly_ not_ going to rain. Nor was it particularly windy. Nor was it particularly _cold_. But differing frames of reference; he could let it slide maybe for now_ this_ time. You didn't always have to bring up the starving children in Ethiopia, or at least that was what Garland said. And he'd looked so pathetic when he'd said it, too. So, thinking about sweeping generalizations and how they would play into the downfall of man, Brooklyn lurched up on prickling-bloodless legs and stepped _over _the Mizuhara welcome mat (depicting many ladybugs that Brooklyn preferred not to step on), and into the Mizuhara house.

Max had been talking the entire time he'd been thinking, and still was. And Brooklyn observed vaguely sans all interest that he wasn't being nervous, that was really how he _went_. Apparently he had Things to Say. Brooklyn followed the voice without listening to the words, walking a line in the exact center of the hall, stepping _over _the various articles of clothing shed in his path rather than _around_, trying not to grimace when Max burst from a door further ahead and to the_ left_ and brushed past at alarming speed and just as he was turning his head and eyes to follow, shut the front door against escape. With a whoosh of drafty fall air into the calm 72 degrees of the hallway.

Brooklyn felt caged, but instead of reacting he tried to wait it out, watching the temperature wavering and falling and rising again, but falling closer by as Max trotted past at _alarming_ speed, carrying along a layer of the outside cold, trailing it behind him in the air. When Max disappeared further ahead to the left, saying things in a jovial and decidedly easy tone of voice, Brooklyn noticed he was rather too far right of his center line. One foot had fallen completely off of it. He was dismayed… reached his arms out and shifted until they touched either wall and he was an equal distance between…

Anyway Brooklyn had stopped feeling dismayed, and Garland had once said he didn't _always _have to feel caged, so he continued on his way. Fingers brushing the walls a moment longer or so. Three layers of paint, tan, green, light blue, wallpaper beneath that in a visually galling pink and red floral pattern. The ceiling stuck up in swirling-artistic bumps from layers of popcorn acoustic, old but not too old, minus the asbestos lacing. Trying to hide a crappy job installing miniature iron chandelier ceiling light fixtures that would have looked better outdoors. Tarou Mizuhara was lousy at the easy renovations, but the wiring had never once failed. The fine details were all perfectly in place. Like a genius builds a robot with a sophisticated operating system but can't figure out a decent paint job.

The floors were hardwood deep down inside, but fake-roll-out sticky-white tile, and then rough gray carpet on top of that. This was a narrow, dim hallway. The staircase up ahead used to have baby gates locked into the top and bottom. One time Max had tripped down it and twisted his ankle. The other times he hadn't been injured at all. Every time he'd landed laughing. To the left now, because Brooklyn's hand tracing that wall had hit empty air, there was the kitchen and in there Max was laughing, because that was how he handled surprises. He wasn't uncomfortable. He'd been asking questions all the time Brooklyn was remembering with the house.

Brooklyn came around to the present, and observed vaguely sans all interest that Max, in front of the open fridge with food piled in his arms, seemed to be smiling like he expected Words and/or Answers from Brooklyn, so Brooklyn offered, "This house is where there used to be a field with horses in it." He crossed to look out the window into the backyard. "Usually a brown one and a black paint." He supposed they weren't there any more. "But there are still buttercups. The horses knew not to eat them." They weren't blooming at the moment anyhow. And the horses weren't there at the moment. He thought a moment, hand on the window frame; no, they hadn't been there for ten years.

Brooklyn startled. He'd been so busy reaching out (zoning the racket of Max out) that he'd ignored some life within! Crimes against Humanity… loosely defined… And now the quick heartbeats cracked a rhythm across his eardrums until he hushed and hushed, stepping swiftly around Max, across, across and _right _and stooping only a little to gaze half-lidded at a pair of budgies, one green, one blue, both male. Making the most charming conversation one could expect from a couple of pea-brained little birds. They were discussing the quality of the seed, repeatedly, making the same points, it was really quite pathetic and adorable, kind of like Garland when one came upon him tidying up the glass from the family photos one had wrecked.

Eventually they thought to let him in on the conversation, and after a bit of appropriately circular logic Brooklyn worked out that their names were Edgar and Montaigne, mispronounced "Montana" at the best of times, green and blue respectively. And they thought the quality of the seed was dismal. Or at least that was the conclusion they kept settling upon, every time the argument restarted. Brooklyn stooped further to peer at the dishes and inspect said quality, and informed them it could have been worse, and they guffawed that they couldn't remember a time it had ever been _worse_. Or better, right? he joked, not particularly at their expense, because they were some of the stupider budgies he'd ever met, and couldn't understand enough to be hurt.

They were so very dumb that Brooklyn didn't even feel as angry as he usually did about the cage. Sometimes things had to be contained for their own good. Or at least that was what Hiro had said when he'd thought Brooklyn couldn't hear.

When Edgar and Montaigne started waxing poetic about jingly-toys, Brooklyn came around to the present and almost elbowed Max in the face, whipping about in fright. Such proximity! Max just ducked, well trained in avoiding Rei's ponytail, and didn't so much as back up, his mouth continuing to move and lips continuing to smile and his eyes kept glimmering and it was all very suspicious. Brooklyn supposed he should try and figure out where the conversation had progressed to, while he'd not been taking part in it.

No sooner had he the whim then Max's voice broke like choppy water over sea-rocks over his eardrums, the budgies heartbeats fell backwards out of mind, and there were Words being Said: "—while their owner is out of town. Aren't they cute? Dad has been promising me a puppy for like thirteen Christmases, but he hasn't delivered yet. Anyway I think this year is the _one_." Brooklyn tensed at the prospect: overrated designer golden retriever wearing red bow. Puppy mill fodder—"You know the animal shelter across town?" Brooklyn relaxed at the prospect. "I'd feel too bad not to adopt, you know, especially since Hil and I visit sometimes. Designer dogs are so overrated! You_ know_ I've seen Kai lurking arouuund—eh… there… um…"

Brooklyn had tensed again, very slightly, not because of the content of Max's conversation, but because Max's voice crackled the most grating nervousness. Rattle rattle hisss on eardrums, ugh. He was regretting involving Kai; bracing for reaction. Well God, Garland had _said_ he didn't have to overreact _all_ the time. What was Max expecting? No really—Brooklyn peered down and slightly _left _at the blonde, pure, intense curiosity. For the first time interested. No really, what do you expect I'll _do_? Utter incredulity—Are you trying to stop me from _doing_ something..!

"I'm sorry." Max had decided to be frank, watching Brooklyn with apologetic eyes. Because he'd heard a rumor that procedures (like avoiding mention of all things Kai) didn't work. "I didn't want to annoy you. Do you mind if I talk about Kai? It'd only be like… .02 percent of the conversation, I swear, there really isn't that much to say. Just one time I bumped into him—with my bike—and this grocery bag he was carrying had _cat food _in it, and he was pissed but I helped him carry it home—and I think I might be the only person in the world who knows where Kai lives, but he wouldn't let me in anyway, just had me leave the food at the bottom of the stairs and um… Anyway he's an animal lover. Weird, right? 'Cause you couldn't imagine, like, the Blitz Boys having anything to do with fuzzy creatures in a positive sense and Kai was one of them for a minute there—I think he was more pissed that I saw the cat food than that I hit him with my bike." Max giggled a little, in realization.

Brooklyn felt free to zone out again, because the blonde was no longer invading his personal space, gone back to the counter, and was no longer nervous and/or apologetic, and his tone of voice wasn't setting off as many alarm bells or grating in his ear canal, and the _content_ was altogether boring. Brooklyn noted vaguely sans all interest that Kai liked animals but more often than not they _dis_liked him. You could tell when the cuts on his fingers were cat scratches instead of Dranzer scratches. It was a weirdly satisfying thought in the pit of his stomach that only organisms as dumb as Edgar and Montaigne could enjoy the presence of Kai Hiwatari. And even then—he inquired of the budgies for verification—it was only because they couldn't remember how much they _hadn't_. And the stupid, after all, usually allowed the benefit of the doubt.

The fact very much explained what was happening here.

So—if that had been .02 percent then they had a lot of conversation left ahead of them. Brooklyn watched half-lidded as Max's mouth moved without prompting and hands flew around an extensive spread of sandwich ingredients. The conversation Continued. Max had Things to Say and because he wasn't worrying about putting them incorrectly, his voice didn't jangle so offensively, and Brooklyn didn't have to pay enough attention to be offended. Or pretend to be offended. Do you really need to play Devil's Advocate_ all_ the time, Garland had, after all, asked. Well no he did not. It was more relaxing in a situation like this. Questions were so often rhetorical!

And Brooklyn had only ever freaked out because somebody else had first, dragging him back to the present, where so often there were things to freak out about—so it was said by The Experts, anyhow. If they thought everything was normal, then they exuded normal, and Brooklyn sensed only normal, and Brooklyn didn't have to be sedated. So the doctor had said when he'd thought Brooklyn couldn't hear.

Brooklyn found and sat upon a stool, alongside the counter, watching Max prepare a sandwich for his father's return, watching his mouth move and eyes shine, altogether very happy, in the soft kitchen-light. Watching him talk unabashed and unguarded, and growing ever more soothed by the fact. It wasn't like when Kai had to be all combatative and refused to censor himself for Brooklyn's presence (or even plain decency good GOD), trying to provoke a reaction by playing at Ultra Indifferent. Max wasn't trying to provoke any reaction. He talked freely because that was how he _went_, and when he laughed it was no longer at the surprise of this situation, because _what_ surprise really?—but rather at the shocks in discoveries he could only make by speaking. Brooklyn recalled that Max had so far made twelve discoveries in the course of their conversation. Marked by a particular little chortle.

Max wasn't being Ultra Indifferent. He was hardly conscious of being indifferent at all. Just harder for him to mind himself, that was all, an honest sort of stupid-trusting-giving individual, and it wasn't like Garland had given him a plan of action! Garland had taken away all their plans. Left them nothing "safer" to fall back on than being themselves… And maybe that after all had been the Great Diabolical Scheme: if they were allowed no procedure other than being their normal selves, they _had _to exude a sense of normality. And that was all Brooklyn would feel. And Brooklyn didn't have to be sedated. All they should do was nothing special at all, so Kylie had said. And Brooklyn could tell when they were faking it. Garland and Hiro and Kylie usually were; The Experts, always.

But here, if only here in all the world, sitting in the Mizuhara kitchen against all odds, Brooklyn could tell no such thing. He folded his left arm upon the countertop and rested his left cheek there, face turned, observing Max, occasionally listening in to note where the conversation had gone. But altogether it was boring, and that was a weirdly satisfying change.

* * *

_a/n_: Surprise fic? Eh, only if you want it, **feather-duster**. If not it's stayin' right here with me, fufufufufu. See it involves your newfangled "bouncing" and MUSIC, see the title is that of a Genesis song I had on LOOP and, ah… If I got Brooklyn wrong, you know, all I have to say is "hoshit", and point a blame-filled finger at Max. Who you will LIKE, DAMMIT, very much indeed before I'm done with you! I was trying to think of a truly unnatural sort of doorstep for Brooklyn to wind up on, and, you know, couldn't resist. 

One new word invented: "falcitude".

Rather more optimistic than usual. Sorry I'm a lousy correspondent.

Please Feed the Author; we prefer reviews and praise, thankyouverymuch! First two reviewers get a particularly stupid budgie for their troubles. Hope ya'll enjoyed now, y'hear?!


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